


Not The Elven Way

by Anonymous



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:54:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27425287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Mirwen finds pursuing a career as a stone and gem carver in Eldamar to be more difficult than she'd ever imagined, especially given her first instructor was not Elven. Direct sequel to "The Gift" and "Stone's Song".
Kudos: 1





	Not The Elven Way

“What do you think you are doing?”

Mírwen looked up from her polishing her latest project, an jasper horse in full gallop, to gaze wide-eyed at her new master. “Polishing,” she replied, knowing that she shouldn't have to explain her actions.

“Not that. I am speaking of that... _sound_... you were making.” Master Aranyel grimaced as if in pain and pinched the bridge of his nose before staring at her again. “Are you in pain somewhere? Have you injured yourself?”

 _Oh. That._ “No, Master. Just humming to myself.” _He was in his office. How did he hear..._

“Well, stop it!” he growled at her with a glare. “It is highly disruptive to your fellow apprentices. How many times must you be told this?”

“Yes, Master.” Mírwen sighed, her shoulders drooping.

She stared down at the carving in her hand as the Golodh Master Sculpter walked away with a huff. It was becoming a serious problem: just when she was starting to get the stone to sing to her properly, her master would storm out of his office and tell her to be quiet.

How did he expect her to tell the little horse what it was to be and who it was intended for?

Mírwen looked around the studio at the other apprentices, only to find them looking at her with an expression in their eyes she had grown to understand all too well. She'd seen it in the eyes of her mother most often, that look of confusion and mild irritation. It seemed that Khuzdul, even when chanted in the softest whisper she could manage, was unacceptable anywhere in Eldamar.

Obediently she folded her polishing cloth into the proper configuration to fit into her kit and wrapped the agate horse in a soft piece of goat skin, all the while burning with frustration. Without the ability to chant to the stone, her efforts were wasted, as far as she was concerned — and she'd finally had enough. There was no need for her to stay in the studio any longer. With quick, economical movements, she had the rest of her tools stowed in the kit as well. Without sound, she rose to her feet and headed for the door. Perhaps she could escape before...

“Mirwen Aglarebiel!”

With her hand flat against the door, she paused and then turned to face her irate Master.

“Where do you think you are going? Your project is not finished.”

“I cannot finish it in here,” she replied as evenly as she could, even though she was shaking in her shoes with anger and mortification. Her father had asked Lord Thranduil's seneschal to secure her this training, and being asked to leave would humiliate not only her, but her entire family. “I have a habit of the humming that you asked me not to do, and...”

+

“And you can learn to do your work without it,” Master Aranyel stated sternly. “Your _adar_ informed me that you had a rather... unique and frankly ludicrous introduction to our art. It was his hope that time here would allow you to move away from that. From what I understand, both he and your _naneth_ agreed that you need to learn to do things in the Elven way.”

Suddenly Mírwen was furious beyond measure. _Ada told Master Aranyel THAT??_ Pushed to defend herself, she bit off her words tersely. “My introduction to carving was not ludicrous. Master Gimli Gloin's son was an acknowledged Master Gemcarver among his own people...”

“Your father called him a _naugren_. One of the Step-Children.” Áranyel's face folded in disgust. “Someone who had no business here in Aman in the first place, spreading inferior ideas about how to do things.”

“Yes, he was _naugren_.” She stared at the tall Golodh brazenly. _She_ wasn't embarrassed to mention her former master's race. “One, incidentally, that the _Valar_ themselves gave permission to come...”

“Permission to remain, you mean.” Áranyel spit out the words. “Everyone knows that it is easier to get forgiveness after the fact than permission beforehand.”

“It matters not. He was allowed to remain, and even was granted audience with Ól himself. I do not imagine you have had that honor.” Mírwen drew herself up as much as she could, and never had she ever more wished that she could have been taller. “In my opinion, and that of many others I am told, Master Gimli's work is considered every bit as delicate and beautiful as anything I have seen made by our people.”

The Master's face filled with fury. “You would compare the work of one of _them_... hairy, short, and rude... with the work of...”

“Yes, I would!” Mírwen spat back, not caring about family honor anymore. “There is a life in his carvings that I have never seen in anything produced by one of us. I believe,” she began, then stopped to think for a moment. When she raised her eyes to him again, she was decided. “Master Áranyel, I am resigning my place in your academy. I will not remain if I have to listen to my former Master being maligned.”

“None will ever employ you as a sculptor or gem carver without having a certificate of training from one of our academies,” Áranyel threatened, his voice going soft and deadly. “And it will be my great honor to spread word of your insolence, so that no other will...”

“That will be agreeable to me,” Mírwen said just as softly. “To be honest, I would rather sit on a street corner in Alqualondë selling my work to passers-by in the streets than work for or with you or any like you for one moment more. I appreciate what my parents tried to do for me, but...”

“Get out!”

“I _was_ leaving,” she reminded him with a grim smile. “ _You_ stopped _me_ , remember?”

“Insolent child, daring to speak to me in this fashion!”

Mírwen shrugged. “For your information, I am no child. I have achieved my majority. And now, I believe, I will act on the authority that majority gives me to determine my own path.”

“ _OUT!_ ”

oOoOo

“But what do you intend to do _now_ , daughter?” Aglareb demanded as soon as his wife and daughter had also sought their seats around their little table. “Galion himself was the one who arranged for your place in the Academy, and Aranyel is considered...”

Mírwen merely shook her head. “I do not care what his reputation is. He is pompous, arrogant and bigoted. He believes that no _naugren_ should ever have darkened the shores of Eldamar...”

“He is not alone in that,” Sadroniel said sharply.

“ _Naneth_!”

“We have spoken to you often of this. Such tolerance from our Prince is one thing; from one such as _you_ is quite another.” Aglareb had rarely sounded so cold, so judgmental to Mírwen.

It was as if a veil was drawn back from her eyes, exposing what she had already known but had avoiding acknowledging for so long: she would be no more contented remaining with her parents than she had been in the Academy. Neither her _ada_ nor her _naneth_ would tolerate her practicing her art in the way she just _knew_ she had to, much less would either of them make the slightest effort to understand what drove her to do things in something other than the accepted Elven Way.

“Never mind,” Mírwen sighed tiredly. “Tomorrow I will take myself away, so you both will not need to feel ashamed of my presence in your household.”

Clearly, that was anything other than what either had expected. “Mírwen!” her mother chided angrily, while her father threw himself back against the back of his chair.

“You do not have to say anything; I can _see_ that I am an embarrassment and a disappointment to you both,” Mírwen continued, finally allowing her bitterness and grief to show in her voice. “Neither of you ever bothered to try to understand before; why I should have expected you to make any effort _now_ , since I have ‘thrown away’ the chance that Galion acquired for me at your request is beyond me.”

“You will not speak to us in that tone of voice, girl,” Aglareb growled.

Mírwen merely rose to her feet. “I apologize,” she told him with no sincerity whatsoever. She gazed long at the food on the table, more than aware she had neither appetite for it nor intention to submit to the point that her dining would be permitted. “May I rest here overnight, provided I am gone by this time tomorrow? Or do you wish me to depart now?”

“We will discuss what will become of you tomorrow, when you have had time to reconsider your attitude,” Sadroniel snapped at her. “You may go to your old room until then.”

“Yes, _Nana_.” Mírwen gave a shallow bow of respect to her parents, more out of habit than respect or affection, and then turned to go up the narrow stairs of the cottage. _Dithen Dìnen_ felt like home no longer, and she knew that she would be out of the house and long gone even before her early-rising mother was up and around.

Somehow, somewhere, she would make a place for herself. Somewhere, somehow, she knew if she could find somewhere where she could practice her art in the way in which she worked best – not exactly in the accepted Elven Way, but still one that produced significant results – she would be able to sustain herself, keep a roof over her head and food to sustain her in her stomach. Even life as a street vendor would have to be better than what she had now.

oOoOo

The few finished pieces that she had managed to finish during the agonized days at the Art Academy looked almost lost in the expanse of blanket that Mírwen had spread on the ground on the edge of the market square near the wharf. A stylized frog on a lily pad, made of jade, sat a short distance from a delicate garnet butterfly perched on an emerald blade of grass. A mother bird feeding her young had been fashioned of a delicate agate with striations that enhanced the intricacy of the nest and the pattern of feathers. An onyx kitten with faceted emerald eyes looked to be ready to stumble forward, tail erect and ears cocked in curiosity. Finally, the jasper horse that had been her final project stood in mid-prance, tail flagged as if itching for a race. Each carving gleamed brightly in the morning sun, and each had within it a hint of life that Mírwen just _knew_ came only from the songs that had been sung during their making.

Still, it was hard to sit there, hour after hour, watching people amble by during their marketing time, seeing several pause and stare at her work as if amazed and interested, and yet they would inevitably saunter on without asking price or offering to barter. It would be another chilly night if she had to use that same blanket she was currently sitting on to keep warm again in the shelter of a stack of rubbish that only barely held back the night time ocean breeze.

Perhaps Alqualondë wasn’t the place for her to ply her trade...

Utilizing the time productively, however, and grateful for the steady rumble of voices and carts and horses through the city square to hide her untraditional technique, Mírwen wielded her diamond-dust-impregnated cloth with watchful ease and a soft chant, giving a final polish to the small, ruby tulip blossom between her fingers that sang softly back at her in return. Wistfully she remembered Gimli working on a similar piece long ago and found herself wishing that she had found a little more jade for leaves and the gold fittings to turn her little bit of carving into a brooch or pendant. But gold was beyond her at the moment; any carving would have to stand on its own. She would have to look for jade, however, the next time she walked the jewel-strewn beaches for supplies. At least _those_ weren’t difficult to find or outside her ability to pay for.

“How much do you want for the frog?”

Startled, Mírwen looked up sharply as her chant evaporated and then had to shade her eyes from the brightness of the sun behind the face of the one who had spoken. “Three silver,” she answered back, hoping beyond hope that her price wasn’t too much. Three silver could pay for a month’s room at the meanest inn near the water...

“Three... That’s outrageous!” the man’s voice boomed loudly.

“Two then.” Two silver would mean two six-days’ lodging and maybe some extra food...

“No, you misunderstand me.” The man moved then so that he was blocking the sun for her. “I will give you five for it, even though I realize it truly is worth much more than that. My wife loves frogs, and never have I seen one that literally looks ready to hop away.” A hand extended down. “Five silver, and not a copper less. Do we have an agreement?”

Mírwen reached out and picked up the little frog that reminded her so much of her beloved emerald frog that Gimli had gifted her with so long ago, the one carving that even now sat at the bottom of her bag of tools, never _ever_ to be sold. “Five would be quite satisfactory,” she said softly as she felt the frog leave her hand only to be replaced by small coins.

“What is your name, girl, and did you carve this yourself?”

“My name is Mírwen; and yes, that is my work,” she replied hesitantly, tucking the coins safely into the little pouch at her belt.

The man turned the frog in his fingers, studying it from several angles. “This is exquisite work! Pure genius! And you will be here again?”

“Yes.” She definitely would be here again! Five silver paid for a month’s lodging, food – perhaps even hot food from time to time, and maybe even a tiny bit of silver wire to turn her tulip into something that could be worn after all.

“Good. Then you shall see me again, for my daughter would probably enjoy that horse for her room. In fact, how much for the horse? I do not think I wish to take a chance that another will purchase it before I do. And don’t under-estimate its value so sharply this time, please...”

Mírwen smiled for the very first time in a long time. Five silver – plus whatever her horse would bring her – wasn’t all that much, and she was very aware that this exchange was the kind of purchase that she would need to make many times over with some level of frequency to actually make a living with her skills. But it seemed that there _were_ those after all who didn’t need to see an Art Academy certificate to prove her worth as an artist.

Her carvings, like Gimli’s, needed no stamp of official approval of Elven agency. They spoke for themselves, as would she from this day forward. She _was_ an artist, and she _would_ prosper, proving both her parents and Master Aranyel wrong in the process.

She picked up the horse and held it up for her customer to look at more closely. “Make me an offer?”


End file.
